


Dark Lady Watch Over You This Hallow's End

by Lewdsmokesoldier



Series: Poll Stories [6]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Femdom, Multi, Other, Zombies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:15:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25139089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lewdsmokesoldier/pseuds/Lewdsmokesoldier
Summary: The Story of My Time Spent in the Captivity of the Dark Lady Sylvanas Windrunner and her Entourage as Lurid Entertainment. Or, the History of My Employment as a Living Being in an Undead Court and all the Adventures Herein.
Relationships: Sylvanas Windrunner/Original Character(s)
Series: Poll Stories [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820980
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Dark Lady Watch Over You This Hallow's End

**Author's Note:**

> This is part of my [Poll One-Shot Stories work](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18747037?view_full_work=true), and has been posted separately for ease of navigation and tagging.

I will not relay the circumstances under which my captivity within the power of the Dark Lady began, for the focus on my tale, if it be not titillation, is the recording of the duration I was under her control proper, and it is therefore appropriate to begin the narrative where my contact with her began, although perhaps not in the more euphemistic sense that quickly became apparent following my initial correspondence, if it could be called such. I will not fall into the traps of certain Sternes or Fieldings, who devoted the better part of their biographies to events unrelated to their time on this earth (although, to wit, that expanded upon by the Swifts of the world are concise enough to be worth emulation, and it is in that style that I will author this history).

My narrative begins with my flight through Silverpine Forest, where the cloudless skies give light to the paths snaking through the woods...or they would, were they not obstructed by a coniferous canopy, the needles of the trees spidering the glow of those twin lunar bodies. While I will make no judgements on whether or not the esteemable reader of this account holds that the larger of the two bodies is Elune or Mu’sha or some other deity, or merely an inanimate celestial body, I would like to employ its person to illustrate the ephemeral lighting of that most terrible night. For as I fled from dangers that eluded my understanding, crashing through the brush and scraping thick bark from trees as I went, heedless of sound and subtlety and my mind fixed on life, the winking in and out of that luminosity from sight signalled nothing less than the world finding accord with my vanishing understanding and rising terror at the circumstances of my rush.

So focused was I, in fact, on the manner in which the forest and sky reflected my terror that I allowed my gaze to be diverted from the path in front of me. My inattention was swiftly and justly met with a fierce, sharp stinging sensation across my face, then the growing sensation of weakness and deadening nerves spreading from my cheek down to my neck, loosening tense muscles into relaxed, soft and useless extremities.

Oh, the horror that coursed through me! It’s difficult to put words to it, even in writing and with my faculties, but there was little more that I feared at that moment than what might befall me. Had I struck a tree so strongly that I was losing my senses? Had some hungry insect seen fit to sting or bite me, sending venom coursing through my circulatory tissue to liquify me from within? Had I run headlong into some Worgen, reduced to savagery and a horrifying hunger for flesh? Alas, were it to be such a thing! If that be the case, I might have avoided the fate that awaited me, but as I felt the insistent hand of sleep crossing over my mind, long, dainty steps met my ears, and a voice heralded me into the darkness afterwards.

“You will do nicely.”

* * *

When I awoke, I found myself bound to an altar, or perhaps a chair or some other repository for immobilized victims to be placed upon. I confess that my diminished faculties rendered me quite unable of discerning the finer details of my condition, though my senses rendered unto me certain pieces of information that hastened my assessment of what had occurred. The stagnant air and dim light informed me that I was indoors and underground, a fact confirmed by the dark stones encapsulating my chamber of containment and the dust falling down from the ceiling, where a single green-glowing lamp hung and swayed. A pendulum, reflecting my growing doom? At the time, I could only guess, and none of the possibilities sounded profitable for me.

Attempting to move my arms was fruitless, as they had been secured quite strongly to whatever I was against. My legs were free to kick and strain, but my bindings permitted no escape. My captors, who at that point were yet to reveal themselves to me, had little confidence in my ability to elude their prison. At the height of my paranoia, at the thought that I had been left to die in this tomb or was being prepared for some terrifying, forbidden ritual, I was made to hear a voice, coming down from the corner of the room.

“It seems you have finally awoken. Good.” Oh, how little I can do justice to that tone! It echoed and whistled through the inertness suffocating that sepulcher, tinged with the thrilling purr of amusement and a curtness that brooked no argument. Beneath it all was a reverberation that thrummed with magical confidence, or perhaps just magic. It was then that I noticed that a stairwell led up from the corner of this crypt to someplace above, perhaps the sweet breeze of life and the sun. A shadow was cast down by a descending figure, and when they came into view I was met with a most curious sight.

A great deal struck me about the figure that stepped into the room, too much for me to list in any particular order of importance, dear reader. She—and I could tell quite definitively by this point that they at the very least gave off the appearance of being female, though the specifics are no doubt more complicated—stood quite a bit taller than myself, such that even were I to be at my full stature I suspect she still would have been able to comfortably look down on me even more than the smugly self-assured tilt to her chin already allowed her to. She was clad all in purple and silver and brown, emblazoned with skull heraldry, feathered pauldrons, and a brown leather cuirass, with embroidery lining her hood, her white-gray hair peeking out from beneath it and her pointed ears sticking through the sides. Her eyes shone with a scarlet glow that must have reflected the absence of blood within her person, for I knew then that she could only be an undead. Her sickly, ashen pallor was evidence enough of that, as was my awareness of her identity.

I confess, esteemed observer, that I dared not speak. The tales of the Banshee Queen have a power beyond their retelling, and the hushed, horrified whispers of her capacity for cruelty had left many a child stilled in fear at hearing her deeds. My silence was bought by dread, and I had by then resolved myself to death, knowing quite well how the Dark Lady treated her captives: a swift end would no doubt not be mine.

“Do not speak, else I shall gag you. Who you were before is unimportant, and your new purpose will become the centerpiece of your existence.” It continues to baffle my vocabulary to describe the effects that Sylvanas’s words had upon me, even after the fact, but I will attempt to conjure it up for your benefit. Imagine a thin, sharp needle, starting at the tip of your head and drawing down, cutting a miniscule, cold line along the ridges of your spine, enough to draw blood without striking the bone. The bleeding leaves no warmth, the pulse prompting no fresh sanguine essence to escape the cut: it remains, open and exposed and chilling the soul, leaving your body ashudder with frigidity and fear. Such was the sensation that greeted me upon listening to her ghostly tone, her words echoing and reverberating insistently within my ears long after she’d stopped talking. 

I could not stop myself from chattering my teeth. How certain I was that torment was upon me! Sweet, merciful death was not to be my lot, and in its place my screams would echo throughout this mausoleum for time untold. Imagine my surprise, then, blessed witness to these words, when the Queen of the Forsaken did not put her fingers to my face to suck out my soul, or shriek into my eardrums until my brain was abound with her howls, or reveal a blade by which she could vivisect me, or otherwise make clear the torture that would be on me. No, sweet reader, instead she raised a hand to some clasp on the back side of her cuirass and pulled, shifting her armor forward with the motion. I imagine that she undid some seam, or otherwise pulled apart the straps holding the leather on her torso together, for it began to split and come apart from the back to the front, the gem between the two plates covering her breasts swaying as the encircled cups fell forward and her upper half was left bare. Without so much as a look back to see if I was watching, she continued to divest herself of her clothing, pulling and kicking off her boots until she was left completely bare save for her hood.

“I am not going to kill you,” she began. Would it surprise you to know that I was too shocked to move, too enthralled and stupefied to squirm or resist or otherwise make my opinion know? “Nor will I torture you, although this may be torment, of a fashion.” Her hood hung low over her brow, casting her face in shadow, the only thing visible her eyes, twin rubies in the darkness. As she stepped towards me, I could not help but marvel at the sway in her hips, the legs that shined off the emerald light swinging above, the manner in which her breasts bounced with her movement. I would have expected an undead, even one such as her, to be damaged, bony and shriveled and dehydrated or perhaps even bloated with overactive postmortem digestive bacteria, otherwise being made to bear all the evidence of decomposition. If not that, then more obvious signs of preservation, of embalming and mummification or some sort of sorcery. But no, treasured audience, instead the Dark Lady presented herself entirely as a buxom, curvaceous elven woman in the prime of her life, her body all smooth, soft lines, save for the swell of musculature across her stomach, shoulders, and limbs. 

I must assure you that I have never before betrayed an interest in corpses, and especially not for carnal purposes. Even excluding the jurisprudence related to such an act, which has never been acceptable in my country, the moral offenses engendered by such a violation repelled me. And yet I could not stop myself from adoring the sight presented to me of a shapely elven woman in spite of the fact that, for all intents and purposes, she was a corpse, though the maintenance she put towards her appearance would not suggest as much . If this revelation causes you great distress, then I cannot help but recommend that you turn away now, for fear of further offense being inflicted upon your most understandable sensitivities. 

As the Dark Lady stepped up to me, she extended a hand downwards, her slender fingers aiming past my stomach. It was then that I came to understand that I was, in fact, utterly relieved of clothing, naked with nary a stitch nor a scrap to conceal the modesty of my person. How is it possible to go so long without realizing something so integral as nakedness? Before you condemn me for inattention, please be aware that when one is whisked away to an unknown locale, presented with stifled environs and a distractingly engrossing individual, it must be expected that some elements of one’s condition will be demoted in importance in favor of seeking survival, understanding, and escape. As it was, now that my nudity was revealed to my own person, I could not suppress the trembling that worked its way through me, borne of chill and, perhaps, something akin to anticipation.

“I have need of a warm body, a firm cock, and mightily full balls. You have all three, and other elements of interest as well. You will serve my purposes.” She moved without waiting, for I had no means of resisting her and sought not to provoke her through speech. When her fingers closed around the head of my shaft, I could not hold back the tiniest gasp. She was cool to the touch, carrying the temperature of the grave, and I could not attribute that solely to the actual ossuary we were both in. In spite of the chill, the softness of her touch was...enchanting, to put it mildly, and when the light shone across her face for a half-second, the tiniest smile was visible.

“Do not say one word.” A bold command, dear reader, and perhaps a difficult one to adhere to, but one would have to be present, to hear the cocktail of allure and threat in her voice to know that absolutely no argument or dissension was to be permitted, on pain of...well, something unpleasant, to be certain. When I nodded assent, she began to lower herself to her knees, the shroud casting her visage once more in shadow as a dark chuckle echoed forth from the void beneath her cowl. “I thought so.”

Have you ever felt an undead woman’s mouth on your cock, gentle readers? I imagine not. It is difficult to describe, even to recall, but I will try. The Dark Lady did not begin by plunging her mouth onto my shaft, instead extending a tongue I could not see to lap at the engorged head of my prick while one hand circled the base and the other cupped my testicles, radiating cooly onto skin, something betwixt crisp and lukewarm. I have had the fortune of experiencing other individuals laying their hands on my most intimate parts, but never one who had experienced death, and the sensation was...not unpleasant. Most certainly, the chill was not such that my erection felt pushed to shrink: to the contrary, the unexpected softness and the knowledge that, of all women, Sylvanas Windrunner herself was visiting this upon me was quite enough to maintain my arousal.

But when she enclosed her lips around my cockhead...it nearly pained me, so sharp was the shock, the jarring swerve from a dainty lick to suddenly feeling lips and cold teeth on my shaft. After being exposed to the stagnant crypt for so long, the wetness and closeness of her mouth was a welcome diversion, and though her tongue and lips and teeth were not nearly so warm as one belonging to those women who still coursed with the essence of life, Sylvanas’s mouth was accommodating indeed. Something akin to a rumble traveled from her mouth and up my cock, sending me atremble with the vibrating stimulation, and if I hadn’t known better I might have supposed that she had giggled or laughed around my cock in her mouth. Preposterous, I know, but allow a captive their luxuries, if you would...and besides, these events have long since passed.

Lady Sylvanas Windrunner, her countenance blocked by her hood, knelt and sucked my cock, stroking what wasn’t in her mouth while her free hand continued to massage my testicles with more gentleness than I ever would have expected from a warrior and leader of her caliber. I tried not to allow my mind to linger on what else she might have used those hands for: instead, I let my thoughts turn to just how well an elf, even an undead one, could pleasure a dick and balls. Permit me some crudeness, for it will be difficult to describe the coming events without some tawdry language, and I suspect that any of delicate sensibilities have long since stopped reading this account. And it is thus that I must confess that a thought occurred to me, one lewder than any I had had before: that elves, truly, were best put to use working cocks. It shames me to shelter such a crass belief, even for a moment, but my words may yet prove me justified.

My shaft was subsumed with the comforting pressure of her mouth and lips, buffeted by the squeezes and undulations that are characteristic of any skillful application of the face for the purpose of pleasuring a partner. While my flight through the woods would have suggested that I possessed an abundance of energy, in truth my run had left me exhausted. And so it was with the Dark Lady, for in spite of the discomfort associated with the knowledge I had of her power and brutality and the reminder that she was, well, _dead_ , I found something uncoiling deep within myself, a desire to release that which had built up naturally from being made to witness Sylvanas’s nudity, and being subjected to her oral ministrations.

I grit my teeth, struggling to not release any words per her direction, yet desperate for the tension within to find some escape. My thighs tightened, the muscles growing taut against her cold body, and the stirrings of a rumble rolled up from her chest. She had no need to breathe, and I could never imagine her giggling: the sound, then, must have been her humming akin to approval, or perhaps a demand. Whatever it was, it was one more sensation too much for my poor cock to endure, surrounded as it was by achingly cool lips, tongue, fingers and teeth, my nuts similarly made to find shelter in her grip. Her scarlet eyes watched me from behind the shadow of her hood, narrowing with unknown purpose.

I erupted, firing my load up from my twitching, tensing balls straight into the Banshee Queen’s throat, painting her tongue and teeth with a fluid hotter than any she had likely partaken of in her many, many years of undeath. It shot past her tonsils, no doubt destined to languish in an inert stomach, coating her throat in a slimy sheen that she’d never need to cough up. In spite of that, as she pulled away I felt her gag powerfully around my withdrawing cock, and when I was at last free of the wonderful prison of her mouth I beheld the leavings of her actions oozing towards the floor, the strings of drool and escaping spunk dripping down in long strands from the darkness that obscured her visage. I heard a smacking sound, and could only assume that she had allowed the cum in her mouth to slip out, spilling down her chin and onto her chest.

“Hmph.” She stood, heedless of the cum and spit falling to her breasts, one hand still on my member. “Passable. But I will need more.” 

She kicked my legs apart and positioned her lap over my length, still stroking my cock which had, by some quirk of the moment, refused to soften and stayed erect, coated in what drool had not dribbled out from between her lips and from the cum that had covered her tongue. Hovering a hairs-breadth above the swollen, throbbing head was that most wondrous of openings, the hole that had driven many a person to despair, madness, and ruin through its terrible and engrossing embrace. The pale, shaded lips of her pussy did not ooze, and they did not tremble, but between her legs it still seemed as wonderfully engrossing as that belonging to any other such individual. When she lowered herself even more, and my head prodded her folds, it took every ounce of strength I possessed to not thrust upward and doom myself to her wrath.

“A...acceptable. Perhaps you will yet prove worth my time...if you are able to endure what I have in store.” The faintest flicker of uncertainty ran through her voice—an echo of life, perhaps, or an empathy that lay beneath—but it was gone before I could be certain, and the sensation of her sinking down onto my cock distracted me from any further psychoanalysis.

You will forgive your bereaved author if they find their vocabulary lacking to describe what awaited them upon penetrating the Banshee Queen, but I will endeavor to do as best as I can. As someone who was fortunate enough to have engaged in sexual intercourse before, I can verify that burying one’s member within the confines of an undead woman is an entirely new experience. To be sure, Sylvanas was exactly as tight and slick as any orc or human or blood elf one might have the pleasure of coupling with, among many, _many_ other races, but what must have stuck out the most to me was the all-enveloping chill that encircled my shaft. Ordinarily, such temperature would have prompted wilting and softening of my erection, but the suffusion of cold was...oddly arousing. Perhaps it was the novelty, or perhaps it was the fact that the temperature did not detract from the vigor with which Sylvanas’s pussy gripped me, but I found myself not unhappy with the experience. 

Of course, my own comfort was beside the point: the Dark Lady had decided to employ me for her own purposes, and I had little ability to decide anything in the matter. Such it was that the Dark Lady wrapped her legs around my back and bound arms, leaning back to rest her rear on my thighs, and began to bounce with her hands on my neck and shoulders. She did not sweat, and she did not grunt or whine or gasp or moan, and yet I could feel true, tangible marks of her pleasure as she lifted herself on and off of my cock, unyielding in spite of the unusual environs it found itself plunging into and out of. Lady Sylvanas’s breasts heaved and bounced with her motions, her hood shifting and sliding as she plunged herself down onto my dick and leapt right back up, clutching that turgid length all the while. Her head was framed by the lamp, which now swayed with her motions, such that her face was rarely cast in light. But when she was, I beheld those same blood-red eyes, furrowed in concentration, that twitching nose, and those long, thin lips pressed tight in effort. Sylvanas could not tire, but she could _want_. And she wanted something that, it seemed clear, she was not yet getting.

Unfortunately, despite their recent evacuation, my balls were straining to unleash another load, swinging and swaying back against her ass each time she fell down. A part of your author wishes that the Forsaken Queen had turned around, so that they could behold her buttocks swaying and jiggling with her motions, but I knew better than to voice my preferences. And in spite of holding back my orgasm as dearly as I could, there was little I could do to endure the myriad of stimulation being worked upon me.

Dearest readers, I should hope by now that you have formed a not unflattering opinion of your writer and guide throughout this journey. If you have not, then what comes next may turn you from forming such a preferential opinion. If you think highly of me, then I can only hope that your inclination will grant me some clemency for my imminent failings.

Unable to resist any longer, I unleashed my second load within the Dark Lady’s snug confines. For all my balls and cock knew, they were being worked by a perfectly common pussy, the white cum I was spraying forth from my cockhead basting a perfectly working cervix with fertile fluid, sowing the seeds for her uterus to grow with new life. My poor, unfortunate nuts and dick could never have been aware that they were tilling salted soil, spewing forth potent spunk into a dead and fruitless womb. The futility of it all did not detract from how incapacitating _good_ it all felt, and my whole body strained from the man with which Sylvanas Windrunner milked me for all she was worth.

When it was done, and she finally stopped riding me, her breasts coming to rest as her rear pressed against my thighs and my load stayed firmly planted within her pussy, a deeper dread settled over me. I had evidently disappointed her, for it seemed rather clear that she had not enjoyed her own peak of pleasure. Could she even experience such a thing, deceased as she was? Had she ever had such predilections? 

“Hm. Adequate. Or, rather, _almost_ adequate. But you may yet improve.” She whistled, still keeping my shaft firmly buried within her, and more footsteps and whispering echoed down the stairway to the tomb.

I gaped as I beheld the new figures. More undead elves women like Sylvanas, skin wan and eyes crimson; forsaken women, too, the bones of their joints visible and their bodies in various states of disrepair; and behind them, muscular maidens sporting wings with helmets covering their eyes—the Val’kyr, if you were not mistaken. And behind them, too, the half-corporeal, wild-haired phantasms, clad in the dress of noble ladies, the beings from which the Banshee Queen took her title. It was not long before the crypt was full to capacity with undead women, all eyes affixed on the Dark Lady...and the one whose cock she still sat on.

“What is thy bidding, Dark Lady?” One of them asked, though I could not discern who it might have been. The voice seemed to come from all of them at once, and I had Sylvanas’s naked form to block my view of the crowd with one much more pleasant.

“This one will be of use to us. I will enjoy them once more, and then we will take them for ourselves.”

“As you wish, Queen.”

“Indeed.” Sylvanas smirked, gripping my shoulders, and began to ride my still-hard cock once more...before an audience of her finest female company.

* * *

Such has been my lot since that fateful day in Silverpine Forest. I could not tell you how many days have passed, or what events have befallen the world since I was spirited away. 

I have spent my time since then locked nearly nonstop to one undead corse or another, or many at once. For your benefit, gentle reader, I will list as much as I can recall.

I have been made to pleasure the Dark Rangers, either one at a time or as a crowd. They have a preference for being subjected to all the force and fury my lust can bring to bear, and it is with them that I am most unrestrained. Is it unsurprising that my earlier assumptions regarding elves may yet be proven correct, even as undead? To the fairness of the elves, there are more than a few humans within the ranks of the Dark Rangers, but it makes little difference: all come undone upon my pounding dick and erupting orgasms in time. With them, I feel almost free.

I have been made to satisfy the Forsaken who are neither Dark Rangers nor any other sort of specialized necromantic creation. The ones who are merely human, raised from the grave or the surf or wherever their bodies were imbued with unholy magic. They do not receive the same immutability of form that the Dark Rangers do, and thus occasionally come to me missing limbs or joints or sections of their faces, but they are...not entirely unpleasant to be around. It took me some time to get used to their lack of reactions, but they assure me, even as I grip their hips and lay into them from behind, that they enjoy it...and their holes squeeze me just as tight as any other. I can cream them just as I would their better-preserved brethren.

I have been used by the Val’kyr, the maidens who serve Sylvanas by propagating her Forsaken and receive my own body as reward. They pin me to the floor and bind me roughly, riding out their desires and milking me for all I can give until I am left broken and exhausted and spent, and then use me again until only fear of the Dark Lady makes them stave off their desires. Still, I find no small enjoyment in partaking of such titans, even if I am never the one giving direction. Perhaps one of them will take pity on me someday and allow me to take control, unequal as I am.

I have been enjoyed by the banshees, and therein lies the strangest encounter of them all. I am imbued with their essence, their ghostly forms passing into my nostrils and through my eyes until my body is puppeted by them, and then I am directed to ravage the forms of those who have been similarly overtaken by banshee controllers. The bodies they inhabit are as varied as their imaginations: sometimes, they are captive succubi, summoned by Sylvanas’s warlocks, and sometimes they are other living beings who I only see when I am under a banshee’s influence. Sometimes, they are other Forsaken or Dark Rangers, willingly giving up control for a time to assist Sylvanas’s closest advisers. The sensation of being made a captive even within my own body is thoroughly disconcerting, but I will not pretend that it is completely without merit. The joy the banshees feel in taking physical form infects my mind, and their bliss at being able to experience having a dick and getting it milked by a tight hole, or to feel being in my body as it is ploughed by another such possessed, imparts no small pleasure to my own senses. It is still my least favorite...but I have no choice.

And, of course, there is the Queen herself, Lady Sylvanas Windrunner. How she has me is dependent only upon her imagination, and it is limitless. She has ridden me as she did the first; she has permitted me to press her to the floor; she has worked my cock with her tits while stroking my balls; and she has rubbed her form all over my body until by that contact alone I am undone and cum all over her, to name but a few. I have filled her ass with my cream, flooded her pussy with my spunk, splattered her throat with my seed, and coated her entire form with my fluid, and it is never enough.

I am distinctly aware that she gets no release from this. Sylvanas enjoys me not for the orgasms that I cannot provide her—in truth, I believe no one would be able to grant her such—but for the power using me demonstrates over her underlings. She always gets first pick, and enjoys an audience while she makes use of me, though she finds no small pleasure in watching me pass time with her court as well.

I am not yet dead. I know not why, for my necessities as a living being must grate on them, requiring food and rest and warmth and other such needs that do not fit into their frame of reference, but they provide them for me anyways. They do what they can to enhance my stamina and reduce my refraction, but there are still times when I simply have nothing to give.

Perhaps that is why they’ve acquired you, dear reader. I have written down this account for the benefit of anyone else that comes into the service of the Dark Lady and her female court. Perhaps I will be dead and discarded when you find this, or perhaps I will be just another form that you see in the hallways during your time here, being enjoyed by undead that have no other recourse. Perhaps, under the influence of the banshees, we will become more personally acquainted...or perhaps we will come into such contact without their input. It is impossible for me to tell, but I sincerely hope that this account has proven useful for the new world you are about to become a part of, whether you like it or not.


End file.
